"How much did you collect?" asked Ostap as soon as the marshal's hunched figure appeared at the spring.
"Seven roubles, twenty-nine kopeks.
Three roubles in notes.
The rest, copper and silver."
"For the first go-terrific!
An executive's rate!
You amaze me, Pussy.
But what fool gave you three roubles, I'd like to know?
You didn't give him change, I hope?"
"It was Iznurenkov."
"What, really?
Absalom!
Why, that rolling stone.
Where has he rolled to!
Did you talk to him?
Oh, he didn't recognize you!"
"He asked all sorts of questions about the Duma.
And laughed."
"There, you see, marshal, it's not really so bad being a beggar, particularly with a moderate education and a feeble voice.
And you were stubborn about it, tried to give yourself airs as though you were the Lord Privy Seal.
Well, Pussy my lad, I haven't been wasting my time, either.
Fifteen roubles.
Altogether that's enough."
The next morning the fitter received his money and brought them two chairs in the evening.
He claimed it was not possible to get the third chair as the sound effects were playing cards on it.
For greater security the friends climbed practically to the top of Mashuk.
Beneath, the lights of Pyatigorsk shone strong and steady.
Below Pyatigorsk more feeble lights marked Goryachevodsk village.
On the horizon Kislovodsk stood out from behind a mountain in two parallel dotted lines.
Ostap glanced up at the starry sky and took the familiar pliers from his pocket.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
THE GREEN CAPE
Engineer Bruns was sitting on the stone verandah of his little wooden house at the Green Cape, under a large palm, the starched leaves of which cast narrow, pointed shadows on the back of his shaven neck, his white shirt, and the Hambs chair from Madame Popov's suite, on which the engineer was restlessly awaiting his dinner.
Bruns pouted his thick, juicy lips and called in the voice of a petulant, chubby little boy:
"Moo-oosie!"
The house was silent.
The tropical flora fawned on the engineer.
Cacti stretched out their spiky mittens towards him.
Dracaena shrubs rustled their leaves.
Banana trees and sago palms chased the flies from his face, and the roses with which the verandah was woven fell at his feet.
But all in vain.
Bruns was hungry.
He glowered petulantly at the mother-of-pearl bay, and the distant cape at Batumi, and called out in a singsong voice:
"Moosie, moosie!"
The sound quickly died away in the moist sub-tropical air.
There was no answer.
Bruns had visions of a large golden-brown goose with sizzling, greasy skin, and, unable to control himself, yelled out:
"Moosie, where's the goosie?"
"Andrew Mikhailovich," said a woman's voice from inside, "don't keep on at me."
The engineer, who was already pouting his lips into the accustomed shape, promptly answered: